


I'd Probably Still Adore You (With Your Hands Around My Neck)

by daltonandes



Series: Satisfaction [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred is a jealous bitch, Bottom England (Hetalia), Degradation, Hair-pulling, M/M, Porn With Plot, References to 1776, Rough Sex, Semi-Clothed Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Top America (Hetalia), because what would a fic by me Be if it didn't have degradation, canon-typical america and england fighting, they fuck finally, this part is Alfred-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 12:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17600990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daltonandes/pseuds/daltonandes
Summary: As Alfred listens to Arthur moan his name, he swears he falls in love.





	I'd Probably Still Adore You (With Your Hands Around My Neck)

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 is here!  
> thanks for reading as always
> 
> title comes from the song 505 by arctic monkeys  
> xoxo Dev

**Day 4**

 

Three days remained.

The thought is stressing Alfred out. Arthur was two points ahead of him and the sinking feeling that he might actually lose to _him_ was overtaking the American.

He had to do something.

Alfred swung his legs out of bed and leaned on his knees for a second before getting up. It was nearly 10 o’clock, he needed breakfast. And coffee. More importantly coffee.

After putting the coffee pot on, an idea starts forming in his head. He grabs his phone from the charger. “Siri, call England."

“Okay. Calling  _Bastard_."

The line rings three times before he hears Arthur’s tired voice on the other end. “Hello?”

“Hey, dude. Sounds like you just got up.”

“More or less. Anything wrong?"

He sounds wrecked. Alfred wonders if it was because of the encounter he had with… Ludwig. The jealousy within him somehow springs up again.

“Nothing's wrong. I just called to talk.”

“If this is about extending the contest, need I remind you that this was _your_ idea.”

Alfred clenches his teeth. “It’s not about that. I don’t need more time. Do you know who I am?”

Arthur chuckles lowly. “Is that why I’m two points ahead, yank?”

“Yanno what, never mind,” Alfred says. “And need I remind _you_ that this was also Francis’ idea.”

“You wound me,” Arthur sighs. “You know, it sounds like you’re scared of losing to me.”

“I’m not,” Alfred says with a laugh. “It’s you who’s a sore loser. And you will be when I win.”

Arthur pauses. “I sense something else in your voice.”

“What?” Alfred jolts a little. _Could he tell? Could this bastard tell?_

“I sense…hmm, how do I put it. Jealousy.” Arthur muses. “I sense jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Well, I don’t know why you would be,” Arthur continues. “You never liked Ludwig.”

“You don’t know that,” Alfred says, and it’s a lie.

The thing is, the Brit is right. And it’s pissing Alfred off, because he doesn’t know _why_ he’s so jealous and so mad, and so high strung and why this contest is so stressful and—

And then Arthur sighs into the phone, a small, cute noise, and it hits Alfred like a fucking brick. His grip intensifies on his coffee mug and it takes effort not to drop it.

He wanted to be the one in Ludwig’s place, not in Arthur’s place.

Alfred goes silent and bites his lip as Arthur continues talking. He feels dizzy and lightheaded.

“Are you still there? Goddamn it, America, talk. I know you’re lying.”

“I have to go.”

“Fine, run away from your problems,” Arthur says with venom. “It’s all you ever do.”

Alfred hangs up and stares into his coffee mug for the next ten minutes. Why was this happening now of all fucking times?

 

Alfred doesn’t tell Matt like he kinda-sorta wants to. The rest of the day, he’s plagued with thoughts. Some were good, some weren’t so good.

He lay in bed most of the day, until his phone rings shrilly and he jumps up to answer it, hoping it’s Arthur.

It’s Gilbert.

“Hi there, sexy,” Gil says. “What are ya doing tonight?”

It takes a moment for words to form in Alfred’s brain. “Uh, nothing, dude.”

“Good, you wanna come over? Ludwig and I are having a house party, much to Roderich’s disapproval. But he’s actually letting us!”

Alfred’s lips move before his brain thinks. “Yes, I’ll come. When is it?”

“7 o’clock, mein _freund_ ,” Gil says. “Looking forward to it. Maybe we’ll get drunk enough to fool around again.”

The thought is certainly tempting— he liked Gil a lot, and he found the idea pleasing, but another, different man was invading his brain like a fucking parasite or some shit. Could parasites even live in your brain?

“Yeah, maybe,” Alfred forces his voice to be upbeat. “I’ll see you then.”

“Sure, dude—”

“Oh, wait, Gil,” Alfred says suddenly. “Who else is invited?”

“Ludwig invited all the of G8,” Gil says. “And Antonio and Lovino, some other people, too.”

Alfred’s throat is dry. “Right, okay.”

“See you soon bro!”

**Still Day 4 - Night of the Party**

 

The Germanic household is crowded when Alfred and Matt arrive.

Music is coming from the speakers, bass heavy and loud in Alfred’s ears. There’s some food on the dining room table, kind of obsolete compared to the amount of alcohol crowding around it. Red solo cups are in a neat stack, and there’s another stack tipped over next to it.

They arrive at 7:15, always fashionably late, much to Matt’s dismay, though Alfred ignored it (“I don’t wanna be late, it makes you look bad!”).

It appears that close to everyone is already there— all the members of the G8, Antonio, Lovino, like Gil said. Alfred even sees some of Ivan’s family like Eduard and Toris, or Estonia and Lithuania respectively.

Everyone’s already drinking. Shit, they’re only 15 minutes late. Gil certainly knew how to start a party.

Francis exclaims when he sees Alfred. “Ah, _quelle surprise!_ It’s the life of party, _Monsieur_ America!” From the looks of him, he’s been drinking since before the party even started.

Alfred throws him a smile. “Well, duh, man. Ya think I was gonna pass up a great party?”

“Lemme get a drink in your hand, c’mon honey,” Francis says, leading Alfred to the kitchen, Matt following. “Ivan’s making Jello shots.”

“ _Russian_ Jello shots,” Ivan speaks up, looking up from the counter. “85% vodka.”

“That’s slightly terrifying, isn’t it?” Matt says with a laugh.

“Only if you are weakling.” Ivan’s wearing this tight black long-sleeve, and it just made him look taller.

“I think I’ll have a beer or some wine thank you.” Matt says.

Francis smirks at him. “ _Mon ami,_ where is your sense of adventure?” And Matt turns fifty shades of pink.

Alfred takes the drink Francis makes him, he knows it’s Barcardi with something else in it, and drinks it down.

“Wow, slow down _,_ ” Francis laughs as Alfred finishes it.

“What can I say, I know how to hold my liquor.”

Alfred makes another drink and leaves the kitchen, while Francis and Matt stay in the kitchen chatting. He sees Kiku and Yao on the floor playing Smash Bros hooked up to the TV, both looking very focused.

“Stupid!” Yao says. “That's not even my final attack!"

“Then do it, coward," Kiku replies.

Alfred keeps looking around. He sees Roderich cleaning up spilled drinks already, looking stressed out, probably regretting letting Gil have a party in the first place.

Speaking of Gil, that’s who Alfred finds next. He's having a beer chugging contest with Antonio and Ludwig.

“ _Eins, zwei, drei,_ go!”

He watches in amusement as Ludwig is the first to lose and Antonio is the winner.

“Spanish boy won!” Gil says with a hearty laugh. Ludwig is looking sick to his stomach from all the liquid, and Alfred wonders how long they’ve been doing this.

“Are you that surprised? I was a fucking pirate, idiota,” Antonio rolls his eyes. “And so were you!”

Gil cackles and puts Antonio in a headlock, while Ludwig moves away and meets Alfred’s eyes in the process.

Those cold, blue eyes.

Those eyes that had been on Arthur when he fucked him.

Oh, shit. The jealousy was back.

Alfred is finishing his second drink when he finally finds Arthur. The house is so crowded, he’s not surprised it took a while to find the man.

Arthur’s on the couch against the wall, out of the way of everyone, holding a glass of scotch in one hand. His legs are slightly splayed; he’s wearing those tight black pants he only wears to special occasions, and a white cotton shirt that’s unbuttoned a little. He’s not drunk yet, but his green eyes are unfocused, like he’s tipsy.

Damned if Alfred doesn’t want to lick every inch of his body right about now.

When he sees Alfred, he clears his throat.

“Hello,” he can barely hear the Brit’s voice over the loud noise and blasting music. Gil had just put on something by Pitbull.

“Hey.”

“Looks like you’re having a grand time.”

“I am.”

“Sure sounds like it, too.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“That’s too bad,” Arthur says bitchily. “I’m staying here, getting drunk here.”

“I really don’t know why you’re pouting,” Alfred laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re winning this stupid game.”

“Oh, stupid game?” Arthur laughs. “Now it’s a game? Whose idea was it to play this stupid game?”

“You’re impossible,” Alfred shakes his head. “And you don’t know how to hold your liquor.”

“Take it back.” Arthur is getting up, putting his glass down.

Alfred takes this opportunity to grab the Brit by his wrist and pull him to another room. The closest one is the bathroom, and it’s surprisingly big. The music is definitely softer in there, and Alfred can actually hear Arthur’s voice.

“Unhand me, you fucking—”

“What is your problem?”

“Well, I think I could ask you the same thing,” Arthur rubs his wrist when Alfred releases it. “I’m not a doll to be dragged around.”

“You should be walking on air right now,” Alfred says. “You’re winning this contest that you oh-so wanted to win. So what’s wrong?”

“I think you’re regressing,” Arthur says thoughtfully. “There’s nothing wrong with me, so it must be a problem that you’re projecting onto me.”

“You’re really shrinking me right now?!”

“Am I right?”

Alfred goes silent. “No,” he shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t,” Arthur snaps. “I’ve known you all my life, you think you can just lie to me?”

“I said I was fine.”

“Is this _still_ about Ludwig?” Arthur asks incredulously. “Because this morning when we talked on the phone, you seemed—”

“It’s not about him.”

“Don’t you interrupt me!”

And something inside Alfred snaps, hearing Arthur’s bitchy words, and he’s shoving him up against the bathroom wall, putting two hands on the side of him so he can’t escape.

“What are you doing….” Arthur trails off. The Brit doesn’t look so tough now. Alfred sees something flicker in his eyes, but he can't pinpoint what it is.

“It’s not about him,” Alfred continues in a light voice. “But I do have a problem.”

“And what’s that?”

“You.”

Arthur visibly swallows. “We’ve been through this before. You declared independence and I get it, but—”

Alfred is laughing. “This isn’t about that!”

“Then….”

“You are my problem,” Alfred says. “And I hate you for it, I hate playing this game, and I don’t wanna play it anymore. Because I realized…the only person I want is you.”

Arthur’s eyes widen a little. His lips part and a small gasp escapes.

“Bollocks.”

Alfred blinks. “What?”

“You’re bluffing,” the Brit says. “This is all a plan to make me back down so you can win."

“Will you please forget about that damn contest?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m that stupid.”

“Fuck you.”

Arthur’s expression changes. “Fuck me…fuck _me_? No, fuck you, Alfred.”

“Fuck you. You always have to get what you want, huh?"

Arthur scoffs. "You're really going to say that when _you_ act like a child all the time?

Before his mind can register what he’s doing, Alfred’s grabbing his face and kissing him, hard and possessive, biting his lips. Arthur kisses him back, snaking his hands up into Alfred’s hair, appreciative noises coming from his mouth. His body is against Alfred’s, warm and soft.

When Arthur pulls away, dazed, he chuckles, “Fuck me, I guess.”

Alfred starts undoing the annoying little buttons on Arthur’s shirt. Arthur arches his neck back a little, and shudders as Alfred’s teeth graze his neck.

“I always knew you were a slut like this.”

Arthur laughs a little and bites on his lip. “What can I say….I guess I love a big, strong guy.”

Alfred bites down on his neck at that, and Arthur mewls.

“I never want to hear you bring up anything about Ludwig again,” Alfred says, his tone turning dark. “Understand?”

Arthur nods. God, he’s becoming putty in Alfred’s hands, completely submitting already.

It has him hard as a fucking rock.

Arthur helps Alfred out of his shirt and jacket, discarding them both to the floor.

“My pants too—”

“I don’t even care,” Arthur hisses. “Just fuck me, leave them on."

Alfred grinds against him to shut him up, and it works. Arthur lets out a small moan, and Alfred can feel him getting hard in those tight, black pants that made his ass look great.

He cups Arthur’s ass after thinking about that, earning a gasp from the Brit, before undoing those pants. Alfred’s panting hard, listening to Arthur’s shallow breathing as he flattens himself against the wall in submission.

Alfred takes down his own pants and suddenly stops. “We don’t have lube.”

“Oh, we have a fucking genius over here,” Arthur quips, always the smartass, even though his shirt’s undone, his face and chest dawning a nice pink blush, and he’s hard as fuck, ready to be fucked, biting his lip like that and letting his hair fall in his face like-

 “Of course, we don’t have lube, I’m sorry I didn’t bring any to a _house party._ ”

“You really don’t shut up, do you?” Alfred asks. “Fuck it.”

“Exactly, fuck it,” Arthur agrees. “Just use spit, I don’t care.”

“Impatient whore.”

Arthur bites on his lip. “I really am, aren't I?"

“You are, now say it.” Alfred lubes his cock as best he can, watching Arthur watch him do it, the Brit’s practically _trembling_.

“I’m an impatient whore.”

“And everybody knows it.”

“And everybody knows it,” Arthur repeats the statement, a gasp punctuating it as Alfred rubs the head of his cock against his entrance.

“Good.”

Alfred helps Arthur up so he can wrap his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck, his back against the wall.

And Alfred is pushing in, earning a gasp and drawn-out moan from Arthur. He puts two fingers down the Brit’s throat to shut him up, but the way Arthur’s eyes roll back tell him that he likes it.

Of course he fucking does.

Arthur sucks on them appreciatively, drooling down Alfred's fingers. Alfred fucks into him steadily, milking beautiful sounds out of Arthur, sounds so beautiful he has a hard time keeping quiet himself.

“Your cock is so good— the best I’ve ever had…” Arthur is whining.

It boosts Alfred’s ego to the fucking sky. “That’s right, you fucking slut. Best you’ve ever had,” he says through a groan.

The blush on Arthur’s face and chest has deepened, and he arches his back when Alfred hits _that_ spot— oh God, right there—

“Who’s your hero?”

Arthur lets out a wanton moan.

Alfred digs his fingers into Arthur’s scalp, pulling his hair so hard that his head falls back. “I said, who’s your hero?”

“You are!” Arthur cries out. “Oh, God.”

As Alfred listens to Arthur moan his name, he swears he falls in love. 

 

After they both come down, Alfred realizes the music is still going outside. Hopefully it was loud enough to mask the noise.

Arthur says what he’s thinking. “I’m a bit loud, I know.”

“A bit?”

Arthur blushes again, flustered.

Silence comes over them as the two of them redress.

“So, what does this mean?”

Alfred looks at him. “Huh?”

“We were having a contest to see who could fuck the most people, and we just fucked. Do we both get points? Do neither of us get points?”

Alfred chuckles. “Fuck the contest, man.”

Arthur smiles a bit. “I guess you’re right.”

“You’re agreeing with me? Damn, that must’ve been pretty good then.”

Arthur shrugs. “It was alright.”

“Do I have to imitate how you sounded a few minutes ago?”

“No,” Arthur says quickly. “No, you don’t.”

 

When they come out of the bathroom, Francis is there, leaning on the doorframe.

“ _Bonjour, mon amis_.”

“What do you want, Francis?”

“Oh, just bragging rights.”

Alfred tilts his head. “What?”

“I won the contest, you see."

“What? You were playing too?”

“Of course I was playing too!” Francis laughs. “Do you think I would bring up such a fun idea and sit out? No way. That's no fun at all."

“Motherfucker.” Arthur murmurs.

“Did you know about this?” Alfred asks Arthur.

“Well, yes, but I didn’t think he’d actually—”

“Oh, he _did_ actually!” Francis proclaims. “With a total of six. I beat you both by a landslide.”

Alfred feels his heart sink. “I lost.”

“Don’t think too much about it," Arthur says. "Francis probably cheated."

"Did not! How hurtful of you," Francis pouts.

The two of them start to leave but Francis stops them.

“So, how was your little…time together?” he asks.

“Francis, I swear to God.”

“I didn’t hear much, don’t worry! But I will say, you do call _Monsieur_ America some interesting things."

“That’s it! I’m gonna kill you, _frog_!”

 


End file.
